THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by COLONEL HENRY INMAN (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

Door, Told Of Their Presence.

 

 

 

The Greater Portion Of His Table-Service Was Solid Silver, And At

His Hospitable Board There Were Rarely Any Vacant Chairs.  Covers

Were Laid Daily For About Thirty Persons; For He Had Always Many

Guests, Invited or Forced upon Him In consequence Of His Proverbial

Munificence, Or By The Peculiar Location Of His Manor-House Which

Stood Upon A Magnificently Shaded plateau At The Foot Of Mighty

Mountains, A Short Distance From A Ford On The Old Trail.  As There

Were No Bridges Over The Uncertain Streams Of The Great Overland

Route In those Days, The Ponderous Concord Coaches, With Their

Ever-Full Burden Of Passengers, Were Frequently Water-Bound, And

Maxwell'S The Only Asylum From The Storm And Flood; Consequently

He Entertained many.

 

 

 

At All Times, And In all Seasons, The Group Of Buildings, Houses,

Stables, Mill, Store, And Their Surrounding Grounds, Were A Constant

Resort And Loafing-Place Of Indians.  From The Superannuated chiefs,

Who Revelled lazily During The Sunny Hours In the Shady Peacefulness

Of The Broad Porches; The Young Men Of The Tribe, Who Gazed with

Covetous Eyes Upon The Sleek-Skinned, Blooded colts Sporting In the

Spacious Corrals; The Squaws, Fascinated by The Gaudy Calicoes,

Bright Ribbons, And Glittering Strings Of Beads On The Counters

Or Shelves Of The Large Store, To The Half-Naked, Chubby Little

Pappooses Around The Kitchen Doors, Waiting With Expectant Mouths

For Some Delicious Morsel Of Refuse To Be Thrown To Them--All Assumed,

In Bearing and Manner, A Vested right Of Proprietorship In their

Agreeable Environment.

 

 

 

To This Motley Group, Always Under His Feet, As It Were, Maxwell Was

Ever Passively Gracious, Although They Were Battening In idleness

On His Prodigal Bounty From Year To Year.

 

 

 

His Retinue Of Servants, Necessarily Large, Was Made Up Of A

Heterogeneous Mixture Of Indians, Mexicans, And Half-Breeds.

The Kitchens Were Presided over By Dusky Maidens Under The Tutelage

Of Experienced old Crones, And Its Precincts Were Sacred to Them;

But The Dining-Rooms Were Forbidden To Women During The Hours Of

Meals, Which Were Served by Boys.

 

 

 

Maxwell Was Rarely, As Far As My Observation Extended, Without A

Large Amount Of Money In his Possession.  He Had No Safe, However,

His Only Place Of Temporary Deposit For The Accumulated cash Being

The Bottom Drawer Of The Old Bureau In the Large Room To Which I

Have Referred, Which Was The Most Antiquated concern Of Common Pine

Imaginable.  There Were Only Two Other Drawers In this Old-Fashioned

Piece Of Furniture, And Neither Of Them Possessed a Lock.  The Third,

Or Lower, The One That Contained the Money, Did, But It Was Absolutely

Worthless, Being One Of The Cheapest Pattern And Affording Not The

Slightest Security; Besides, The Drawers Above It Could Be Pulled out,

Exposing The Treasure Immediately Beneath To The Cupidity Of Any One.

 

 

 

I Have Frequently Seen As Much As Thirty Thousand Dollars--Gold,

Silver, Greenbacks, And Government Checks--At One Time In that Novel

Depository.  Occasionally These Large Sums Remained there For Several

Days, Yet There Was Never Any Extra Precaution Taken To Prevent Its

Abstraction; Doors Were Always Open And The Room Free Of Access To

Every One, As Usual.

 

 

 

I Once Suggested to Maxwell The Propriety Of Purchasing a Safe For

The Better Security Of His Money, But He Only Smiled, While A Strange,

Resolute Look Flashed from His Dark Eyes, As He Said: "God Help The

Man Who Attempted to Rob Me And I Knew Him!"

 

 

 

The Sources Of His Wealth Were His Cattle, Sheep, And The Products

Of His Area Of Cultivated acres--Barley, Oats, And Corn Principally--

Which He Disposed of To The Quartermaster And Commissary Departments

Of The Army, In the Large Military District Of New Mexico.

His Wool-Clip Must Have Been Enormous, Too; But I Doubt Whether He

Could Have Told The Number Of Animals That Furnished it Or The

Aggregate Of His Vast Herds.  He Had A Thousand Horses, Ten Thousand

Cattle, And Forty Thousand Sheep At The Time I Knew Him Well,

According To The Best Estimates Of His Mexican Relatives.

 

 

 

He Also Possessed a Large And Perfectly Appointed gristmill, Which

Was A Great Source Of Revenue, For Wheat Was One Of The Staple Crops

Of His Many Farms.

 

 

 

Maxwell Was Fond Of Travelling all Over The Territory, His Equipages

Comprising Everything In the Shape Of A Vehicle, Through All Their

Varieties, From The Most Plainly Constructed buckboard To The

Lumbering, But Comfortable And Expensive, Concord Coach, Mounted on

Thorough Braces Instead Of Springs, And Drawn By Four Or Six Horses.

He Was Perfectly Reckless In his Driving, Dashing Through Streams,

Over Irrigating Ditches, Stones, And Stumps Like A Veritable Jehu,

Regardless Of Consequences, But, As Is Usually The Fortune Of Such

Precipitate Horsemen, Rarely Coming To Grief.

 

 

 

The Headquarters Of The Ute Agency Were Established at Maxwell'S Ranch

In Early Days, And The Government Detailed a Company Of Cavalry To

Camp There, More, However, To Impress The Plains Tribes Who Roamed

Along The Old Trail East Of The Raton Range, Than For Any Effect On

The Utes, Whom Maxwell Could Always Control, And Who Regarded him

As A Father.

 

 

 

On The 4Th Of July, 1867, Maxwell, Who Owned an Antiquated and Rusty

Six-Pound Field Howitzer, Suggested to The Captain Of The Troop

Stationed there The Propriety Of Celebrating The Day.  So The Old

Piece Was Dragged from Its Place Under A Clump Of Elms, Where It Had

Been Hidden In the Grass And Weeds Ever Since The Mexican War Probably,

And Brought Near The House.  The Captain And Maxwell Acted the Role

Of Gunners, The Former At The Muzzle, The Latter At The Breech;

The Discharge Was Premature, Blowing Out The Captain'S Eye And Taking

Off His Arm, While Maxwell Escaped with A Shattered thumb.  As Soon

As The Accident Occurred, A Sergeant Was Despatched to Fort Union On

One Of The Fastest Horses On The Ranch, The Faithful Animal Falling

Dead The Moment He Stopped in front Of The Surgeon'S Quarters, Having

Made The Journey Of Fifty-Five Miles In little More Than Four Hours.

 

 

 

The Surgeon Left The Post Immediately, Arriving at Maxwell'S Late That

Night, But In time To Save The Officer'S Life, After Which He Dressed

Maxwell'S Apparently Inconsiderable Wound.  In a Few Days, However,

The Thumb Grew Angry-Looking; It Would Not Yield To The Doctor'S

Careful Treatment, So He Reluctantly Decided that Amputation Was

Necessary.  After An Operation Was Determined upon, I Prevailed upon

Maxwell To Come To The Fort And Remain With Me, Inviting Kit Carson

At The Same Time, That He Might Assist In catering To The Amusement

Of My Suffering Guest.  Maxwell And Carson Arrived at My Quarters

Late In the Day, After A Tedious Ride In the Big Coach, And The

Surgeon, In order To Allow A Prolonged rest On Account Of Maxwell'S

Feverish Condition, Postponed the Operation Until The Following Evening.

 

 

 

The Next Night, As Soon As It Grew Dark--We Waited for Coolness,

As The Days Were Excessively Hot--The Necessary Preliminaries Were

Arranged, And When Everything Was Ready The Surgeon Commenced.

Maxwell Declined the Anaesthetic Prepared for Him, And Sitting In a

Common Office Chair Put Out His Hand, While Carson And Myself Stood

On Opposite Sides, Each Holding an Ordinary Kerosene Lamp.  In a Few

Seconds The Operation Was Concluded, And After The Silver-Wire

Ligatures Were Twisted in their Places, I Offered maxwell, Who Had

Not As Yet Permitted a Single Sigh To Escape His Lips, Half A

Tumblerful Of Whiskey; But Before I Had Fairly Put It To His Mouth,

He Fell Over, Having Fainted dead Away, While Great Beads Of

Perspiration Stood On His Forehead, Indicative Of The Pain He Had

Suffered, As The Amputation Of The Thumb, The Surgeon Told Us Then,

Was As Bad As That Of A Leg.

 

 

 

He Returned to His Ranch As Soon As The Surgeon Pronounced him Well,

And Carson To His Home In taos.  I Saw The Latter But Once More At

Maxwell'S; But He Was En Route To Visit Me At Fort Harker, In kansas,

When He Was Taken Ill At Fort Lyon, Where He Died.

 

 

 

          A Boy'S Will Is The Wind'S Will,

          And The Thoughts Of Youth Are Long, Long Thoughts.

 

 

 

How True It Now Seems To Me, As The Recollections Of My Boyish Days,

When I Read Of The Exploits Of Kit Carson, Crowd Upon My Memory!

I Firmly Believed him To Be At Least Ten Feet Tall, Carrying a Rifle

So Heavy That, Like Bruce'S Sword, It Required two Men To Lift It.

I Imagined he Drank Out Of Nothing Smaller Than A River, And Picked

The Carcass Of A Whole Buffalo As Easily As A Lady Does The Wing Of

A Quail.  Ten Years Later I Made The Acquaintance Of The Foremost

Frontiersman, And Found Him A Delicate, Reticent, Under-Sized,

Wiry Man, As Perfectly The Opposite Of The Type My Childish Brain

Had Created as It Is Possible To Conceive.

 

 

 

At Fort Union Our Mail Arrived every Morning By Coach Over The Trail,

Generally Pulling Up At The Sutler'S Store, Whose Proprietor Was

Postmaster, About Daylight.  While Maxwell And Kit Were My Guests,

I Sauntered down After Breakfast One Morning To Get My Mail, And

While Waiting For The Letters To Be Distributed, Happened to Glance

At Some Papers Lying On The Counter, Among Which I Saw A New Periodical

--The _Day'S Doings_, I Think It Was--That Had A Full-Page Illustration

Of A Scene In a Forest.  In the Foreground Stood A Gigantic Figure

Dressed in the Traditional Buckskin; On One Arm Rested an Immense

Rifle; His Other Arm Was Around The Waist Of The Conventional Female

Of Such Sensational Journals, While In front, Lying Prone Upon The

Ground, Were Half A Dozen Indians, Evidently Slain By The Singular

Hero In defending The Impossibly Attired female.  The Legend Related

How All This Had Been Effected by The Famous Kit Carson.  I Purchased

The Paper, Returned with It To My Room, And After Showing It To

Several Officers Who Had Called upon Maxwell, I Handed it To Kit.

He Wiped his Spectacles, Studied the Picture Intently For A Few

Seconds, Turned round, And Said: "Gentlemen, That Thar May Be True,

But I Hain'T Got No Recollection Of It."

 

 

 

I Passed a Delightful Two Weeks With Maxwell, Late In the Summer Of

1867, At The Time That The Excitement Over The Discovery Of Gold On

His Ranch Had Just Commenced, And Adventurers Were Beginning To

Congregate In the Hills And Gulches From Everywhere.  The Discovery

Of The Precious Metal On His Estate Was The First Cause Of His

Financial Embarrassment.  It Was The Ruin Also Of Many Other Prominent

Men In new Mexico, Who Expended their Entire Fortune In the Construction

Of An Immense Ditch, Forty Miles In length--From The Little Canadian

Or Red river--To Supply The Placer Diggings In the Moreno Valley With

Water, When The Melted snow Of Old Baldy Range Had Exhausted itself

In The Late Summer.  The Scheme Was A Stupendous Failure; Its Ruins

May Be Seen To-Day In the Deserted valleys, A Monument To Man'S

Engineering Skill, But The Wreck Of His Hopes.

 

 

 

For Some Years Previous To The Discovery Of Gold In the Mountains And

Gulches Of Maxwell'S Ranch, It Was Known That Copper Existed in the

Region; Several Shafts Had Been Sunk And Tunnels Driven In various

Places, And Gold Had Been Found From Time To Time, But Was Kept A

Secret For Many Months.  Its Presence Was At Last Revealed to Maxwell

By A Party Of His Own Miners, Who Were Boring Into The Heart Of

Old Baldy For A Copper Lead That Had Cropped out And Was Then Lost.

 

 

 

Of Course, To Keep The Knowledge Of The Discovery Of Gold From The

World Is An Impossibility; Such Was The Case In this Instance, And

Soon Commenced that Squatter Immigration Out Of Which, After The

Ranch Was Sold And Maxwell Died, Grew That Litigation Which Has

Resulted in favour Of The Company Who Purchased from Or Through The

First Owners After Maxwell'S Death.

 

 

 

He Was A Representative Man Of The Border Of The Same Class As His

Compeers--"Wild-Civilized men," To Borrow An Expressive Term From

John Burroughs--Of Strong Local Attachments, And Overflowing With The

Milk Of Human Kindness.  To Such As He There Was An Unconquerable

Infatuation In life On The Remote Plains And In the Solitude Of The

Mountains.  There Was Never Anything Of The Desperado In their

Character, While The Adventurers Who At Times Have Made The Far West

Infamous, Since The Advent Of The Railroad, Were Bad Men Originally.

 

 

 

Occasionally Such Men Turn Up Everywhere, And Become A Terror To

The Community, But They Are Always Wound Up Sooner Or Later; They

Die With Their Boots On; Western Graveyards Are Full Of Them.

 

 

 

Maxwell, Under Contract With The Interior Department, Furnished

Live Beeves To The Ute Nation, The Issue Of Which Was Made Weekly

From His Own Vast Herds.  The Cattle, As Wild As Those From The

Texas Prairies, Were Driven By His Herders Into An Immense Enclosed

Field, And There Turned loose To Be Slaughtered by The Savages.

 

 

 

Once When At The Ranch I Told Maxwell I Should Like To